Whiskey lullaby: mystrade
by PerfumedRose
Summary: My take on the beautiful yet tragic song of Whiskey Lullaby.


This is my take on the beautiful yet tragic song of Whiskey Lullaby.

I changed the female words to male so it be more appropriate.

 **Whiskey lullaby**

 _He put him out like the burnin' end of a midnight cigarette_

 _He broke his heart he spent his whole life tryin' to forget_

Greg remembered it as if it was yesterday. Some events get grained into your memory either like a beautiful painting against the wall or a scratch out name. Those engravings you scratch into a tree or school table, a scar that lasts forever.

The relationship was going well; it was perfect the way they fitted into each other's life, Greg would say it felt like two pieces, carved from the same stone.

It ended like a dead weight stone in the water.

It was sudden, they woke up together but they went to bed alone. The relationship in shatters. Broken heart pieces scattered around the London streets. One part near the Yard, the other near Westminster. Both sets washed away from the rain.

To this day Greg won't be able to tell you, what happened, Mycroft called him to the office and words were said, mostly from Mycroft, Greg left, his world frozen by the Ice man.

He didn't go back to work. Instead, he decided to go to the old faithful friend of Red Label and Jack Daniels. Boy did they support him the first few days.

He didn't think he would've survived if it wasn't for them.

 _We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time_

 _But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind_

Greg lost his sense of time, he knows there was a change in season, and Sally made him buy a new scarf and gloves after he dropped a file, because his hands were too cold to grab it.

He remembered Sally pressing a present in his hand, saying it was for Dimmock, Greg didn't even know he drew his name in the secret Santa draw. He got a new mug and a Tesco's voucher, the team under the impression he forgot where grocery shops were, since he didn't eat anymore.

But, that's all okay, because Red Label said he doesn't need food, and Jack Daniels agreed. If you can't trust your friends anymore, who can you trust?

He remembered a birthday at Baker Street, can't remember who's, there were three people living there, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and John, there was cake, but he didn't eat it, nor the other food. He had a beer, but wanted to go home, his friends were waiting for their own little get together. He never saw the way Sherlock, Molly, John, Mrs. Hudson and his colleagues at the Yard would stare as he walk away, how they would give each other glances when he is not watching.

Greg, he was too busy trying to forget.

 _Until the night_

Another season has passed, a warm one, as Greg didn't need his coat to go to work. He was tired, so tired of fighting to breathe without the pain the inhaling of air would cause. He was tired of forgetting every day stuff, yet could not forget Mycroft. His two friends are not helping as much as they use to, even though they spent more time together.

As he climbed out of the shower and placing his phone on charge, he knew deep down, this was the last shower. He didn't mind.

 _He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger_

 _And finally drank away his memory_

 _Life is short but this time it was bigger_

 _Than the strength he had to get up off his knees_

 _We found him with his face down in the pillow_

 _With a note that said I'll love him till I die_

 _And when we buried him beneath the willow_

 _The angels sang a whiskey lullaby_

Sally found him, after he didn't show up for work; she called John, because she didn't know who else to call. John declared him dead and held Sally as they stood in front of the bed, tears running down their cheeks. He finally looked peaceful, the pain and grief gone from the lines in his face. It looked as he was sleeping, in his hand was his phone, it was open on a text. He typed a text to Mycroft: I will love you till I die, and then forever more. Sherlock didn't speak for a week, his hands bleed from the violin strings that didn't quiet down for several days. The melody perfect for a haunted ballad.

Greg succeeded, finally, in drinking away Mycroft's memory, along with the rest of his life. The funeral was on a cold and rainy day, the sky crying in union with the sadness around the open grave.

Sherlock chose the place, a spot underneath a beautiful willow tree, the only one in the cemetery, a different tree, for the man who made a difference.

In the distance was a silhouette of a man, held together by a three piece suit, inside it was all disarrayed and filled with turmoil. His tears fell on empty ground.

 _The rumors flew but nobody knew how much he blamed himself_

 _For years and years he tried to hide the whiskey on his breath_

Anthea tried numerous times to help him, supporting him in the best way she knew how, it was all in vain. His workload got easier, as she carried more on herself, wishing she could carry the guilt he felt inside as well. She is good with carrying; her arms were strong but not enough to held him up, when his soul was falling.

To everyone's surprise, Sherlock didn't blame his brother, nor fought with him about it, even he knows whatever he wanted to say, will never come close to what Mycroft's heart and mind is telling him already. He knows.

John tried to comfort him, but the ice walls were thicker and stronger than before, the need to add ice to the glass of comfort was unnecessary; his hands would cool it enough as he held it close, as it was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

 _He finally drank his pain away a little at a time_

 _But he never could get drunk enough to get him off his mind_

He was unaware of seasons changing, but aware of political highs and lows, the struggle to strengthen the pound, to keep wars away and disasters from happening. He gave up on his diet, because he knew if he should go on one, it would be to gain weight instead of losing it. He didn't need food; it didn't fit in his glass either way.

He remembered the snow falling as his brother and John declared their engagement, and the relief he felt for his brother's happily ever after. His story will continue to inspire and comfort people for many years to come. His story was fading as the liquid in his glass.

He never saw the glances, the worry in Anthea's eyes as she gripped Sherlock's arm for help and comfort. He missed how Sherlock would seek out John, as his mere presence would provide calmness for the raging storm he felt inside. He knew, soon, he was going to be a single child, and that terrified him

 _Until the night_

He came home from work, the tie hanging from his twitching hands, the tie unknown from the shape of a glass. He was tired of fighting to keep wars from breaking out, to help aspiring politicians who think they can change the world for the better.

He didn't care about the strength of the Pound, as he won't need money anymore, and his brother's future is secured. The strength to stay was failing, and the failing to move on, was getting stronger.

He dropped the tie in swirling heap on the floor, knowing it won't be a bother anymore.

 _He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger_

 _And finally drank away his memory_

 _Life is short but this time it was bigger_

 _Than the strength he had to get up off his knees_

 _We found him with his face down in the pillow_

 _Clinging to his picture for dear life_

 _We laid him next to him beneath the willow_

 _While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby_

Anthea found him the morning, the weight of her carrying bringing her down to her knees, as the tears fell on the small bundled up tie. The silver satin, stained dark with the salty drops. She stayed like that until John lifted her form; Sherlock was kneeled on the bed, his fingers removing the picture from Mycroft's dead cold hands. The only smiling now was the couple encased in the wooded frame. He finally looked at peace, with his head on the pillow, the tear tracks long since dry.

They buried him next to Greg, one tombstone for both, the corners decorated with fire and dancing together as one. The sun was shining, casting shadows on the flowers; the wind sang a soft melody through the leaves.

In the distance, if you looked closely, you could see too silhouettes, holding hands as the walk into the sunset, finally happy and without the need for a whiskey lullaby.


End file.
